


Hush

by turnitup



Series: Hush [1]
Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Clay Spenser Whump, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt Clay Spenser, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27698324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnitup/pseuds/turnitup
Summary: 'Til it happens to you, you don't know how it feels.
Relationships: Brock Reynolds & Clay Spenser, Brock Reynolds/Clay Spenser
Series: Hush [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041270
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> \- TRIGGER WARNING - 
> 
> The following reading contains references to rape and sexual assault experienced by one of the main characters. 
> 
> This was written to facilitate personal healing but if this could be potentially traumatizing or triggering for you, please look after yourself first.

When Clay wakes up, his first instinct is to panic. He’s in a clinic bed – or what passes for one on this side of the world - but his clothes are still sullied and stained, come, blood, dirt and rain water covering him. His face is bloodied and rubbed raw, there’s likely an open wound on the line of his scalp from when they had slammed him into the wall.

He doesn’t want to risk anyone seeing him like this -- Clay doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’d been left alone, so he can’t guess if his teammates are going to come looking for him. For all he knows everyone is either out looking or back at the base. 

He can’t take the risk, though.

Clay haltingly rolls off the bed, crouching down and jerkingly takes stock of his surroundings; the lights are out, and all the doors are closed. No light trickles out from beneath the doors, and he can hear no footsteps or hushed voices talking. 

Seemingly deserted, he wastes no time moving towards open door, shutting it softly behind him with practiced ease. With shaking movements Clay steps back and sucks in a steadying breath. 

He stares at the door and waits. Strains his ears, listening intently for the slightest sound, something that tells him someone has noticed him coming in. Nothing comes; no shuffling of feet, no sharp shout or call of his name, he hears nothing but his own shallow, labored breathing. 

He’s alone.

For real.

“Agh,” Clay chokes on whatever noise tries to leave him, his hands twitching at his sides. Tingling, itching sensation spreads over his arms, his legs, his entire body as he stands there staring at the door. 

When he shifts he can feel dried blood and come cracking, flaking off from his upper thighs and ass; the cold dampness of his stained briefs against his ass nauseating. He drags a clawing hand and rips his jacket off, grunting as he tosses it across the room. The soiled t-shirt come next, Clay pulling it ff with far more force than necessary; he hears a seam pop as he goes. 

He doesn’t care. He always has more clothes. He can always _get_ more clothes. Who cares if these are ruined? 

The pants and underwear come off in one smooth motion, their threads worn bare and loose from how rough they’d been treated only hours before. -- _Hands hooked in his waistline, slipping into the tight strip of elastic that holds his boxers in place_ \-- and Clay howls, weak and pained. His left hand covers his mouth halfway through the noise, muffling himself, as his right fists in his hair, against his forehead as he cries, high and strained. 

His shorts and underwear fall to the floor beneath him effortlessly,

_“Fuck!”_ Clay hisses, as quietly as he can. He steps out of his clothes, toeing off his boots as he goes. 

Every article of clothing left on him feels like a vice, wrapped around his throat, tightening and _tightening,_ a sign tacked to his forehead telling the world what had been done to him. What he’d _allowed_ to be done to him.

Did the team know? Did they tell the team?

Clay falls to his knees and retches, the contents of his stomach emptying on the floor at his feet as tears stream down his face freely. His body shakes and folds in on itself when he’s finally done dry heaving, and he wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. 

His lower back aches, low and deep, like something had ripped him apart from the inside. Because something -- _someone_ \-- had. Clay can still feel the urgent press of their cock, slipping over his ass, trailing a line of pre-come in its wake. 

Can feel the shape of it as it pushed inside, forced inside Clay as he gagged and screamed, clawed at the wall to get away. 

He can still hear them chuckling next to his ear.

The creak of his door is like a gunshot echoing in the small room; “Hey, Sunshine, you awake yet? I just wanna check--” 

Clay couldn’t control the full body flinch. He freezes, his blood running ice cold and his mind blanking as he hears Brock’s voice filter into his ears; his voice is at once both grating and soothing, like an unholy mixing of emotions that Clay can’t even begin to decipher. 

He can’t bear to turn his head up and look at Brock, but his body acts on its own accord as his eyes trail up towards him; he follows the line of Brock’s legs, up past his torso – past his arm patch – until finally landing on his horror stricken face. 

Clay wants to scream again. 

Shame, hot and violent, swirls in his chest; too akin to when he’d been caught masturbating, years and years ago. The same kind of embarrassment, shame, _guilt_ fills him as it had then. 

It’s his own fault, really; all of this is his own fault. He needs to stop getting into jams, stop getting team involved in things like this. Needs to be more careful, more cautious; none of this would have happened if he’d just --

_“This is your fault. You made me do this, my American Sunshine, so you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.”_

“Sh--” Clay starts, tries to speak; his voice gets stuck in his throat next to the nausea that is swelling again, and he has to swallow it down. 

He sniffles, tucking his arms against his chest, still holding onto his shoulders. He straightens -- or, tries to, but he hisses as his back strains from the movement, aching. Too sore to bend fully up; his body trembles still, as well, like a leaf. Clay locks his jaw, lifts his head with some semblance of dignity, and offers Brock a lopsided, wavering smile that feels as fake as the rest of him.

“Should have locked the door,” Clay laughs, dryly. 

Brock’s eyes widen, his mouth falling agape, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, in the doorway, letting a small amount of light from the overhang of the balcony filter into the room and cast Clay in an ominous orange glow. Clay can’t decide if it’d be better if Brock was talking nonstop, or yelling, or _laughing,_ anything other than him standing there dead silent. 

And then -- there’s a shift in Brock’s face. Something like recognition, too close to familiarity for comfort. Brock hastily glances behind himself, into the hallway, before stepping forwards and shutting the door behind him. Clay can’t stand staring at him any longer and his eyes flee to the floor, chewing on the inside of his lip to give himself something to do.

Brock doesn’t turn on the light, and he doesn’t come any closer than the foot of the door, which Clay is grateful for. He isn’t sure if he can handle Brock forcing his way into his space, right now. And he most definitely doesn’t want to see his own pale, bruised legs. Brock simply stands there, though, and Clay can’t help but be grateful. 

Fabric crinkles as Brock kneels down. “It’s okay.” He says, his voice _so_ soft that Clay can’t help but look back up to him. 

Brock is smiling, small and genuine -- Clay recognizes it instantly, and can tell the sincerity behind his eyes if Clay himself were blind. He extends his hand, _‘Hello’_ facing up; he doesn’t reach very far out, just opens himself up -- his body language -- for Clay. Painting himself as honestly as he can.

“You’re safe with me.” 

And --

Clay’s face crumples as a sob bubbles up out of his chest; he _aches,_ so badly it feels like he’s dying, his chest throbbing in a way he could never describe in words. With jerky, pained movements, Clay crawls forwards on his knees into Brock’s embrace, his hands bunching the fabric of his camo pullover.

“Oh, _Clay,”_ Brock weakly says, and his arms encircle Clay without hesitation or disgust, pulling him close. “Clay, six, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Clay falls into the hold without a second thought; something about this -- about it being _Brock_ trying to comfort him makes it hard for Clay to resist, and if he’s being honest with himself he really doesn’t want to fight it. 

Because it feels _nice_ to be held like this; the memory of the rough hands on his hips, the way they’d slammed Clay’s face into the wall, they’re fresh in his mind and he grips Brock’s shirt just a little bit tighter and buries his face in his collar. 

One of Brock’s hands slips below him -- carefully, avoiding his ass and moving just below, at the tops of his thighs -- and he lifts, pulling Clay up into his arms in one smooth motion. Clay’s legs fall into place around Brock’s waist as he rests against his chest, the arm beneath him holding probably more weight than is comfortable. 

Even so, Brock doesn’t complain; he uses his spare hand to hold the back of Clay’s head, his fingers threading gentle through his hair. He doesn’t clench his fist or pull on him. Brock just strokes his hair in comforting movements, shushing him. 

Clay knows -- or, he _thinks,_ hopes, really, that Brock won’t hurt him. That Brock isn’t going to throw him against the wall and take him, use him, take advantage of the vulnerability Clay is allowing him to see. 

Clay doesn’t think he can handle that again.

Brock makes a little _‘hup’_ noise and hoists Clay a little higher, the sound of the door opening the only indication that he’s being taken into the bathroom -- with his eyes closed and face pressed against Brock’s chest it’s hard to notice the change in light. 

Clay stiffens and shrinks, clawing at Brock’s chest through his shirt. “No--” 

“Hey,” Brock shushes, not unkind. “No one’s here, okay? It’s just me and no one else can see you, you’re okay. But I gotta get you to the bathroom, we need to treat those wounds, little buddy.” 

Clay nods and relaxes into Brock’s hold, his fingers loosening, grip releasing from the bruising force he’d had just under Brock’s collarbone. The hallway is, as Brock said, quiet, and empty when they step out into it. The door sounds as Brock shuts it behind him, and his long legs take them to the door of the bathroom in record time. 

The switch clicks, the sound of the door shutting, the bolt sliding closed as Brock locks the door -- _Clay should have done that, earlier, how could he have been so stupid._ There’s the shuffling of fabric, too, that fills Clay’s ears, and he doesn’t have time to try and decipher what Brock is doing before he’s set down on the toilet seat.

Plush fabric of a towel beneath him gives away what Brock had done; a folded towel, laid atop the lid of the toilet, cushions Clay’s ass, and he only winces a fraction as his weight sinks down onto it. Another towel comes up and around him, Brock draping it over his shoulders and wrapping him in it, bringing it closed in front of him. 

Giving Clay some semblance of privacy.

Brock steps back and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his cheeks. “There.” He says, spreading his hands like he’s presenting a prize. “You sit tight, Clay, while I get you cleaned up.” 

Clay swallows, nodding. “Okay.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks, foreign to his own ears and he can’t stop himself as he flinches at hearing himself. 

Brock doesn’t mention it -- he just throws open the top flap of his pack and drags out an outlandishly sized first aid kit. He hefts the case up onto the counter, unlatching the front and popping the lid; Clay watches him silently, biting his tongue against each new wave of cold fear and pain that rattles his body. 

It doesn’t help -- the trembling is instinctual, like shivering from the cold, and he can no sooner stop it than drain the ocean. His fingers clench, hold white knuckled on the white towel around his shoulders. 

Brock approaches him and presses a damp wipe to his forehead -- Clay hisses and pulls away, antiseptic stinging as it seeps into the gash. Brock mumbles a quiet _‘sorry’,_ bringing the wipe to him again. He’s gentler this time, pressing in smaller, shorter bursts as he wipes away the grit and blood. 

Clay holds himself stiff, bites the inside of his cheek; everything inside his body is _howling_ to get away, to shove Brock down and run for the door. This pain is manageable, he hardly would bat an eye at it in any other situation. 

But it _stings_ and pulls the memory of his head being dragged down the wall, and Clay holds his breath. Watches Brock with sharp eyes, keeping a line on his side arm and each of his hands and where they’re going -- what they’re doing at any given moment. 

Brock doesn’t seem to notice, or, if he does, he simply doesn’t care. His eyes are hard and focused, entirely encompassed by the task of cleaning Clay up. He switches wipes and cleans the raw, torn skin on Clay’s cheeks, making a soft hissing noise in sympathy as Clay winces. 

Brock applies some sort of cream to each of his face wounds in silence, dragging a large, square bandage out of the kit and taping it to Clay’s cheek; he lines a set of three wound closure strips along Clay’s forehead wound, getting it as close to closed as he can. 

“You’re good at this,” Clay croaks out, twitching once more as he hears his own voice; it’s raw from all the screaming he’d done, probably. 

Brock huffs a small laugh and puts the box of wound closure strips back in the first aid kit; “That’s just cause I’ve had a lot of practice being Trent’s second pair of hands. Oldest of three kids as well. Mom didn’t really always have time to help everyone when we got hurt, so I sort of defaulted to it. Ended up coming in handy after finding strange cuts and bruises on myself after a spin.”

Brock turns to him, now, his hands hovering half in and out of the first aid kit. His expression is conflicted, pinched, and Clay knows without knowing what he’s going to say. His face pales, fingers tightening again in the towel as he tugs it tighter around himself.

“Clay,” Brock’s voice is breathy and low as he speaks. “It’s okay if you… can’t tell me right now. But I just--”

His face pinches again and Clay swears he sees tears pricking the corner of Brock’s eyes; Clay shrinks away from it, pulls his legs up and rests his feet against the cold edge of the toilet. 

Brock makes a small noise and Clay hears him shut the kit with a click. “Hey,” Brock’s hand suddenly is on Clay’s shoulder, making him yelp and jerk away. Brock looks stricken and pulls away, his hands raising -- apology and retreat wrapped up into one. 

“Sorry.” He sets his hands on his thighs as he kneels in front of Clay once more. “I just need you to stand up so I can look for more cuts. If you think you can do that. Otherwise I’m going to have to go get Trent.” 

His back still aches, his legs feeling weak and wobbly, but despite himself Clay nods; logically, he knows Brock is right. If they don’t take care of this now he’s going to end up with an infection -- something he really doesn’t want to deal with right now. 

So he lets Brock help him up, Clay sliding off the toilet lid slowly, trying his best not to hurt himself further. He can’t mitigate the entirety of the pain, but it does help, a bit. His socked feet land on the cool tile floor, but his legs don’t hold his weight -- Clay grunts as his knees buckle, his hand snapping forwards to grip Brock’s shoulder for balance. 

Brock tries to help by placing his hand on Clay’s ass -- probably he was aiming for his back, or just frantically trying to catch him. The pain the contact draws has Clay howling and going nearly limp, falling forwards, trying to get away from the pressure. 

“Shit,” Brock hisses and his hand instantly retreats, fleeing to Clay’s shoulder to brace him instead. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Clay. I didn’t realize you--” 

He thankfully cuts himself off with a swallow, buying time for Clay to get his legs under himself. 

“Can… Can you turn around? So I can see how bad you’re hurt?” Brock asks him, his voice thick with regret. 

Clay gets it; he understands the hesitance to look, to see what’s wrong with him. Then it becomes real, then Brock has to come to terms with the fact that Clay has been--

“Sure,” Clay grits out, letting Brock’s shoulder go as he stands to his full height. He turns slowly until his back is facing Brock. 

Clay takes a moment to get his balance, to steel himself with a sharp intake of breath for what he’s about to do, before he drops the towel from around his shoulders. The reaction from Brock is instantaneous; a violent hiss, his hands coming to hold protectively around Clay’s waist, just above the jut of his hip bones. 

Though Clay doesn’t know what he sees -- what he looks like right now -- he can guess from how crusty his backside feels, from the flakes of blood and come that fall off with each shift of his legs. Brock’s breath stings as it ghosts over his ass and Clay flinches, rocking forwards away from it. 

“Okay.” Brock says -- his voice is harder now, something edging the line of anger dripping from each syllable. “Okay. Let’s get you in the bath, Clays, yeah? I’ll clean you up.” 

Clay has only just nodded agreement -- a hot bath sounds good, probably would feel amazing on his back -- before Brock is gently pulling his socks off his feet. Obediently Clay steps out of them in order, holding onto Brock’s arm for balance as he does so. He’s ushered over to the edge of the tub, and Clay hears behind him the soft rustle of fabric.

Then the _oh-so_ familiar sound of a belt buckle being unlatched fills his ears and Clay’s mind blanks for a moment. It takes him only as long as a breath to recover, and Clay instantly jumps -- but he’s weak, and exhausted. He falls to his knees facing Brock and scrambles futilely back against the slick surface. 

Above him Brock looks confused; his shirt is off, strewn on the floor beside the discarded socks and towel, and his fingers are on his belt. It’s open, his fly partially undone, and Clay chokes on his own sob as he draws his legs up protectively to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. 

“Please don’t, not again,” Clay hiccups, his eyes flitting between the belt and Brock’s stricken face. “You don’t have to--”

“Clay,” Brock interrupts, voice urgent and kind, his arms going limp at his sides. “I’m not going to do that to you. Really, _I’m not_ I -- I just need to get in the tub with you to clean you, keep you calm. I didn’t want to ruin my pants. Davis will have my head.” 

His voice is sad and genuine, his brows furrowed in pity; still, Clay doesn’t know if he can trust him, not fully, _not yet._

“You promise?” Clay asks. His voice sounds so small and pathetic to his own ears. He doesn’t remember ever trusting someone’s promise before, trusting their word. He isn’t really sure what makes him inclined to trust it now. But, when Brock says; “Pinky promise.” Clay can’t help but believe him. 

This time, when Brock messes with his belt and pulls it from the loops of his cargo pants, Clay doesn’t flinch or jump away. He still watches him closely; Brock drops his pants to the floor, leaving himself in only his white boxer-briefs, the long expanse of his legs bare now as he takes a small -- for _him_ \-- step towards the tub. 

Brock pauses there, watching Clay, waiting for something; permission, Clay supposes, and he nods for Brock to come closer. He joins Clay in the tub, not mentioning anything about the way Clay immediately crawls to the front of the bath, towards the facet, while Brock kneels at the back. 

He also doesn’t say anything as Clay flattens against the side of the wall, his back pressing against it uncomfortably while Brock reaches forwards and plugs the drain. He pulls the knob, twisting it to what he deems the right temperature; the sound of the water gushing from the facet is overbearing and yet, somehow, comforting, whipping away the uncomfortable silence in the room.

Brock retreats to the back of the tub, going back as far as his lanky body in the short tub can. He rests his arms on the sides of the bath, his legs opening enough to allow a space big enough for Clay to fit between them. The bath water splashes against Clay’s feet and ankles, droplets reaching up to his chest as the water pressure forces it out. 

“Come here?” Brock asks, tone imploring and unpleasantly convincing, his hands beckoning for Clay to move towards him. 

Clay hesitates only a moment before crawling to him, fitting himself between Brock’s open legs; Brock puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and turns him around until Clay’s back is to him. He pulls Clay back and brings their bodies together, Brock’s chest flush against Clay’s back. His hands encircle Clay once more, protective, draping over Clay’s shoulders and holding him close.

“There,” Brock says, softly, his head resting atop Clay’s own. “See? That’s better. Just relax.” 

The water rises higher and higher, and each inch lulls Clay closer into a sense of security -- in no small part aided by the weight of Brock holding him, loosely, in a way that Clay could pull out of at any point, if he was so inclined.

Not like their forceful hold, hands tight and clawing against his hips, holding him in place as he fucked up into Clay’s prone body--

Clay presses back against Brock, a small, pained noise slipping from his lips against his own accord. Brock simply hushes him, his fingers stroking over Clay’s shoulders in small circles. Brock holds him until Clay finally relaxes back against him, and only then does he move. 

He lifts his leg and stretches out until his foot bumps the knob. He pushes it back in, shutting the water off with a hum, letting his leg sink back beneath the water.

Brock still has his underwear on, and Clay can’t imagine how uncomfortable that must be to soak in a bathtub with. Still, Brock doesn’t complain; he hardly makes any noises at all as he holds Clay. Just the soft sounds of his breath and the occasional slosh of water as one of them shifts. 

Clay isn’t tired in the conventional sense, exhaustion striking his body weak but fear and adrenaline keeping him wide awake, eyes wide. He manages to let his eyes slip half lidded, though, as he stares unseeing at the opposite wall from him. 

He’s pulled out of it as Brock moves again, this time reaching up with his arms. He grabs a loofah and a bottle of body wash, dipping the scrub beneath the water to dampen it. He squeezes it out and pours a hefty amount of soap on top of it, returning the soap to it’s spot in the wall. 

Brock uses both hands to work the soap into the loofah until white foam falls from it and into the tub in heavy globs. He finally brings it to Clay and presses it, stroking gently along Clay’s knee, testing the waters. 

Clay can’t help but jump at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away or shove Brock’s hand away; the pressure doesn’t hurt, and the soap leaves clean streaks in the dark, mud stained skin of his knees. He watches as Brock cleans him, first his knees, then his chest and arms; Brock brings the loofah up and rubs gently at his neck, but never gets too close to his face. 

The soothing ministrations only stop once Brock has covered every inch of Clay’s body above the water; all that’s left now is what’s beneath, where he’s stained and torn and aching from how they had left him. 

Clay sucks in a pre-emptive breath, seconds before Brock lets the loofah go, floating in the water as his hands sink below the water.

“I’m gonna clean down here now, babe, okay?” He tells him, his fingertips brushing the sides of Clay’s ass. “It’s probably not gonna be super fun, but if I don’t you could get sick.” 

Clay knows; of course he knows. He’s had shrapnel and bullets pulled out of him, had to bandage himself up with only a spare shirt and a bottle of fifteen percent cheap alcohol. He knows exactly how sick he can get if Brock doesn’t do this.

That doesn’t really make him feel any better.

Still, he nods his consent -- _something they hadn’t needed, nor wanted_ \-- and he doesn’t pull away as Brock’s fingers slip beneath the swell of his ass and lift him up. He pulls Clay up into his lap, until almost all of him is out of the water -- all but his legs and ass, water sloshing against his hips. 

Clay holds onto Brock’s biceps for balance as Brock lifts his legs, putting his knees just behind Clay’s so he can rest his weight entirely on Brock. His fingers find Clay’s hole, and he presses with one finger against it, gentle but sure. 

The second it dips inside Clay whines and digs his fingers into Brock’s arms, burning pain sliding inside him along with Brock’s finger. It’s far less than before, than he knows it could be, but it still hurts, and he squirms, trying to get away from it despite knowing better.

Brock shushes him, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of his head. His fingers sink in deeper, prodding, before curling inside him and pulling out. Come and dried blood come out along with his finger, dispersing into the bathwater as Brock shakes his hand off. 

He moves back, this time pushing two fingers into Clay; they reach in, and Clay cries softly again, the pain making him wince. 

“Fuck,” He presses his chin into his own bicep, squinting down to where he can see Brock’s hand disappearing beneath him. 

“Shh,” Brock whispers, voice sweet and gentle as he pulls out again. “I know, I know.” 

Both fingers return, and this time the pain has lessened as Clay becomes used to it again. Brock’s fingers are long and thin, reaching deep into him, far deeper than Clay would have suspected at first. _Deeper_ and deeper until --

_“Ah!”_ Clay moans, twitching, as Brock’s fingers brush up against his prostate. They retreat instantly, curling and pulling back out of him; Brock no doubt knows what he’s done, Clay knows he’s experienced enough to recognize it.

Brock makes a noise and presses into him again; “Sorry.”

Clay shakes his head minutely, closing his eyes to try and forget the feeling of Brock’s fingers inside him -- it’s counter productive, when his fingers are actively inside him. 

Brock is more careful this time, but he can’t entirely avoid brushing against his prostate – the other cocks had been too big, too long, and Clay is sure his come had filled him so fully that Brock is going to take a while cleaning him out.

It’s wrong, and _awful,_ Clay has just come home from being raped, from being forced to come against his will; and, yet, he feels his cock twitch against his chest, struggling to hardness. His stomach tingles and Clay’s toes curl, and he lets out a soft cry, horror rising anew -- but this time it’s aimed at himself.

“Sorry, sorry, did I hurt you?” Brock asks, ignorant, shaking his hand off in the bath water again. 

He doesn’t know, hasn’t noticed Clay’s cock at attention -- Brock’s head is tucked into Clay’s hair, his line of sight surly locked to their knees and down. Unless he moves, he won't see Clay’s shame. 

“No,” Clay refutes, careful, keeping his voice low in hopes of not sounding like he’s moaning. 

Brock nods and presses his fingers back inside him, and Clay can’t stop the way his legs begin to tremble, or the way he pushes back against the fingers haltingly. Again, Brock doesn’t seem to notice as he presses deeper inside him, fingers nimble and confident and gentle.

His knuckles curl and brush against Clay’s prostate, and he twitches, full bodied, letting out the most obscene moan. 

Brock freezes. 

He knows. 

“I’m sorry,” Clay hiccups, pushing himself back as hard as he can against Brock’s chest. “I can’t he-- _help_ it.” 

He feels more than hears Brock swallow, his adam's apple bobbing against the top of his head. “It’s -- it’s okay. It’s, uh, you know. Biology and stuff. Happens to the best of us.” 

Brock shifts a fraction and Clay groans again, his toes curling and Brock hisses and stills once more.

Silence settles between them, heavy and suffocating, and Clay’s face burns. He wants to apologize again, wants to get away from it and get more. Really -- Clay doesn’t know what he wants. He just knows that with Brock he doesn’t want to throw up. 

Brock’s breath shakes Clay’s hair as he huffs. “I could hurry and finish or--”

Clay’s heartbeat pounds in his ears.

“I could help you with this, if you want me to?” Brock offers, keeping very, very still.

He’s asking; does Clay _want_ Brock to help him? Does he even want that to happen? Again? Does he want to let someone use him twice in one day?

Brock isn’t using him, though. Clay would be allowing him to give him what _he_ wants, not what Brock wants. And he has **always** wanted Brock.

“Okay,” Clay whispers, voice still rough and sore from before. 

“Yeah?” Brock’s fingers twitch inside him.

Clay nods and presses down against Brock. “Yeah.” 

Brock hums, soft and affirmative, and pulls his fingers out. When they return, they’re slick and three breach him this time; unlike the almost clinical way Brock had been touching him before, _this_ time when he pushes into Clay it’s different. He pumps his fingers deep and slow, careful not to injure the already raw walls inside of Clay, his long fingers expertly reaching Clay’s prostate with each upward push. 

Clay moans and screws his eyes shut, his hands clamping down on Brock’s arms as he trembles. The feeling is so different from what they had done to him; each push inside him is aided by the water they sit in, slow and careful, keeping his comfort at top priority. They had just used him as a cock sleeve, seeking their own finish, their own pleasure and amusement.

Brock isn’t -- he’s doing this for Clay, on his behest; if Clay told him to, he knows Brock would stop instantly, let him go and leave if that’s what Clay wanted. 

That knowledge makes a shiver run down Clay’s spine and he sighs, pressing back against Brock’s hand, fucking himself down on his fingers. Brock wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him up until Clay is kneeling down in the tub; Brock’s fingers stay inside him the whole way, wrapped behind him to push inside. 

He presses kiss after kiss across the expanse of Clay’s shoulders, his back, humming encouragement with each and every noise Clay makes. Clay can’t help but whining, his mouth falling open on the noise as he rocks back against Brock. 

Each stroke of his fingers inside him feels good, _too good,_ filling him and pushing against his prostate; electric shocks of pleasure creep up from the base of his spine to where his neck and skull meet.

“Brock, _mmh,”_ He moans, his left hand slipping from Brock’s bicep and back down into the water. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Brock urges, “I’ve got you.” 

Clay pants and his head falls back, laying on Brock’s shoulder; his hand snakes down into the water and presses against Brock’s stomach. It earns him a yelp that quickly morphs into a groan as Clay’s fingers dip below the waistband of his underwear and grip his cock.

The first thing Clay notices is that Brock is _a lot_ bigger than he was expecting. 

The second thing he notices is that Brock’s cock is hard and he can feel pre-come slip out from the tip when he presses his thumb to it. 

“What are you--” Brock tries to ask, but Clay ignores him, pulls his cock out of his briefs with little fanfare or preamble. 

He strokes over it a few times, getting a feel for the shape -- it’s longer by quite a bit, but thinner, curving more sharply upwards at attention. A good little sailor. The thought pulls a laugh out of his chest against his will and Brock squeaks, his fingers slipping out of Clay. 

“Hey!” Brock barks, high and offended. “What’s funny about my dick!?” 

Clay just snorted louder, unable to help himself, and he leans back against Brock’s cock; it pushes between his cheeks and against his hole as Clay angles it into place, not sinking down on it, but feeling it push against him.

“No, sorry,” Clay tries to apologize, but it doesn’t come out very sincere. “Thinking of something else.”

“I’m doing a shit job if you’re thinking about something else with my dick in your hand.” Brock’s voice is quietly indignant, making Clay chuckle just a little bit more. He doesn’t get to revel in the temporary levity; Brock grips his waist and stills him when he tries to rock back against Brock’s cock.

“Clay,” He says, tone suddenly sobering. “Are you sure? After what happened--”

“I can still do shit like this. I’m not broken,” Clay interrupts, voice too loud for the small room they’re in. “This is my choice.” He feels Brock’s head shake behind him, and his fingers stroke gently against his side.

“I didn’t mean that. But you’re pretty banged up, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Clay’s stomach flips and rolls, his eyes stinging and face heating on a feeling he can’t entirely name. 

“You’re already doing better than -- yeah, yes. I’m sure.” Clay tips his head back, glancing behind him. Brock looks conflicted, but there’s heat there, in his eyes. “Please.” He adds for good measure. 

Brock’s eyes scan over his face, taking stock, checking to make sure Clay is _really_ sure. He evidently finds whatever it is he’s looking for, his grip loosening on Clay’s hip until Clay can move freely again. 

Clay takes no time in going for what he wants, pressing down against Brock cock as he guides it inside himself; he sits down on it, moaning long and low as he sinks down inch by inch until his ass is flush with Brock’s pelvis. 

His entire body is trembling, waves of pleasure -- and the slight press of pain at the back of his mind -- racking over his frame, his hands clenching and unclenching wildly. Brock hisses and bends over him, resting his head heavily on Clay’s shoulder, his hands rubbing circles against his thighs, encouraging, reassuring. 

Clay slides back up, the drag of Brock’s cock inside him pulling a groan from his lips, before he rolls back onto it, sinking deep inside him once more. Clay sets a meticulous, slow pace, fucking himself down onto Brock’s cock. 

Water sloshes, waves rolling and hitting the edges of the tub, ripples forming from his movements. His breaths come in short, shaking intakes, as Brock pants heavy against his shoulder. 

Biting his lip Clay moans, his feet slipping across the bottom of the bath as he rocks back against Brock.

_“Uh,”_ He grunts, eyes slipping closed for a moment. _“Uh,_ fuck, _mmh.”_

“Yeah?” Brock laughs; polar opposite of the noise they had made -- malicious and cruel -- Brock’s laugh is lighthearted and pleased. “Does that feel good, little Clay?”

Clay whines, reaching back and tangling his hand in Brock’s scruffy, knotted hair. _“Yeah.”_ He cries, his cock leaking a steady stream of pre-come into the water now. With each downward stroke his cock bobs in the water, droplets of come floating away from him. 

Brock’s hand trails over his side and to his stomach, just above his cock -- not touching, just resting near it, making Clay’s skin tingle with anticipation. “That’s good, baby, I’m glad it feels good.” 

_Baby._

Clay keens, drags Brock’s face down, so close they can feel each other’s breath ghosting over their lips. His lips burn with want -- the urge to kiss Brock overbearing. But.

He can’t. He can’t take that final step, can’t push his mouth to Brock’s -- something stops him, a deep clench in his gut that sets off a full-body tremble. He settles on staring into Brock’s eyes instead; they’re wide open and soft, bright overhead lights reflecting in them, and Clay counts the speckles of blue that are scattered throughout his green-brown eyes. 

“You want me to make you feel good, baby?” Brock’s hand slips down a little more, his fingers brushing just the head of Clay’s leaking cock. “You wanna come?” 

Clay nods his head frantically, gripping onto Brock’s hair harder; “Yes, please, _please,_ I--” He whines on a particularly deep thrust, his eyes slipping closed for a fraction of a moment before he forces himself to drag them open again, staring at Brock, unable to look away.

“I _need_ to,” He begs, his free hand slipping down, wrapping around Brock’s wrist. He uses his hold on him to push his hand down, until Brock’s fingers cover the expanse of his cock. 

Brock makes a soft, pleased noise, and takes him in his hand in one fell swoop. “Of course, Clay, my Clay, I can do that, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He pumps his fist, encompassing Clay’s dick in his hand without even really trying; Clay cries out and rocks down against him harder, his fingernails clawing across the skin of Brock’s arm. He doesn’t seem to care -- really, Brock doesn’t even flinch at the action, instead he just noses along Clay’s cheek lovingly, like a cat. 

“Please,” Clay wails, his mouth _aching_ with the need to just -- “Brock, _please,_ can I -- I _want_ to--”

“Want to what, love?” Brock probes, not unkindly, pressing a soft, too-chaste kiss right under the bandage on his face. 

Fuck it.

_“Kiss_ me,” Clay hisses, desperate, tugging Brock closer to him -- still though, he doesn’t make the move, doesn’t push his mouth onto Brock’s.

Brock, though, does -- he smiles and surges forwards, pressing his lips to Clay’s, covering him entirely. Pleasure and satisfaction threaten to strangle Clay and he sobs into the kiss; he releases Brock’s arm and hair, turning his upper body as far as he can. He snakes his arms around Brock’s shoulders and pulls him close, holding him as tightly as he can. 

Brock pushes his hands under Clay’s thighs and lifts him up with ease, before bringing him back down; he takes over their movements when Clay falters, unable to keep up with the pace. 

He doesn’t mind, this time, when Brock does so. He just lets his mouth fall open when Brock presses his tongue questioningly against his lips, his tongue slipping inside his mouth.

Still gently, Brock increases the pace ever so slightly, fucking up into Clay with as much care he can manage to give him. Like Clay is precious to him and he can’t bear the thought of hurting him. 

Clay whines and squeezes Brock tighter, huffing a heavy breath as Brock pulls away from the kiss; he doesn’t protest, though, as Brock presses kisses across his face, his nose, reaching up to press one on his forehead. 

“You’re doing so good Clay,” Brock praises, thumbs rubbing circles on his thighs even as Brock lifts him up again -- just to lower him back down onto his cock. 

Clawing at Brock’s back, Clay moans, pressing a kiss of his own to Brock’s stubbled cheek. “Brock,” He strains, draws the word out in time with his moans.

Brock leans his head closer for Clay to be able to kiss him better. “So good, darling, so good for me. You feel so good, you know that?”

_“Brock,”_ Clay begs, pressing kisses up his face frantically, trying -- and mostly failing -- to get across his desperation, his _need,_ his heart bursting feelings he can’t name without some deep soul searching later. 

“Come on,” Brock urges, his hand increasing, rapidly stroking over Clay’s cock. The wet _shlick-shlick-shlick_ noise nearly drowned out by the water sloshing around them. “Come for me, Clay. I wanna make you happy. Wanna make you _feel_ good.”

Brock thrusts up into him harder, once, twice; he grips Clay’s cock, squeezing it just slightly too close to painful, and Clay is done.

He cries out, sobbing into Brock’s ear, hiding his head into the crook of Brock’s shoulder as tears stream down his face; his eyes are still locked below, peering down at where his cock disappears into Brock’s closed fist. 

His toes curl and his back arches unnaturally as thick ropes of come shoot into the bath water, seemingly materializing out of Brock empty fist.

Even before his body has fully stopped trembling from aftershocks Brock releases him, raising Clay up enough that his cock slips free from him. Brock lowers him back down, until Clay is sitting on the thickest part of Brock’s thigh.

Brock takes his own cock in hand and groans, jerking himself off frantically, his face pinched and almost looking like he was in pain; the noises he makes, though, tell otherwise, as he lets his head rest heavily against Clay, their foreheads coming together as they both watch Brock’s cock slip behind the grip of his fingers.

“Fuck, _Clay,_ you are so hot,” He moans, making a sort of aborted noise as he squeezes himself almost too tightly. 

Clay wonders if he should try and help him -- the thought is short lived, Brock not giving him a chance to act on it. He quickly comes, following after Clay, his come shooting into the bathwater.

When he stops shaking Brock groans and slumps, leaning back against the sloped back of the tub; Clay allows himself to be pulled down with, Brock’s arms wrapping around him once more. The weight of them is a comfort that Clay is rapidly finding himself getting too familiar with. 

He allows himself to rest his head against Brock’s shoulder, watching as his own hands curl into fists atop his chest. 

It’s oddly peaceful, laying there, and Clay drifts off to sleep for the first time in far too many hours; Brock’s arms holding him against his chest protectively lulling him into enough sense of security he can manage to do so. 

He can worry about overprotective teammates and invasive questions and how he most definitely needs to take some heavy antibiotics when he wakes up. 


End file.
